Eventide
by Lances
Summary: After HBP. The Knights of Walpurgis, predecessors of the Death Eaters, have raised their heads after Voldemort's demise. Autumn 2005 isn't going to turn to a peaceful winter after all, especially after Draco gets one injured Harry Potter under his roof.
1. Dusk

Disclaimer: Surprisingly,I don't own the characters, I don't own the places... You know how it is. Nothing's mine. There, I've said it.

Warnings: CONTAINS SPOILERS FROM THE BOOK 7/ Half-Blood Prince!

* * *

**

* * *

Prologue:**

It had been raining six days in Wiltshire before the stormclouds finally decided it was their time to retire. Consequently, the evening was damp and chill, even if the sky wasn't crying anymore, and the sharp wind was penetrating straight through a warrior's supposedly inpenetrable armour. In the open lawns of the south-central Britain, not even the hungriest Thestrals were as cruel and treacherous as the nature itself, after a particularly boisterous autumn thunderstorm.

Harry Potter was lying on his back on the grass, the handsome boulders of Stonehenge tearing up towards the darkening stratosphere above him. His hands were playing with the straws that had once been as green as a baby basilisk, but were now tainted with a thick layer of blood.

His own blood.

The moonlight was wavering but bright, yet not completely outshining its distant sisters in the depths of the black void. Harry had counted eight hundred and sixty-four stars when he finally heard voices echoing around him.

* * *

**Chapter 1: **

No time of the day is more beautiful than the utmost end of it; the moment when the sun touches the boundaries of the unreachable, allowing the darkness silently to conquer its throne. The moment when the flowers cease to blossom in the chill of the approaching night, closing their beautiful faces from the cold; the moment when the merry fires spring into life in the stony hearths of wizarding homes, creating the illusory picture of warmth and safety, despite the fact that fires in general are so very inconsistent and deceiving, if not guarded properly.

In this moment of time, Draco Malfoy was sitting in his library, silently enjoying a glass of red wine. He was watching the different hues of the fire, deep in thought. Outside, he could hear how the fifth autumn of the new century was raging: the winds were howling in sorrow at the momentary loss of the pouring rain. To Draco's relief, the merciless winter would soon coat the landscape with rigid ice.

The grandfather clock near to one of the several doorways struck ten with low, thundering booms and, for a moment, the entire room was pulsating with its magic. Stirring slightly from his thoughts, Draco leaned back in his chair and glanced around the shadowy room. He was alone again, just like every other night before this. If he wanted to be more exact, he could easily count it had been at least four weeks since he had last seen anybody besides himself. But this, of course, was no surprise. After all, he rarely ventured outside of his house anymore, if not for the obligatory three times in a month when he was out on very important business.

But loneliness, no matter how frustrating it sometimes was, was not what essentially bothered him. No... Loneliness was actually quite soothing. During the many months of its indisputable reign, it had gradually enveloped him into such a tight embrace that he sometimes wondered if he could break free from its grip, anymore. Or, rather, if he would ever _want_ to break free from its grip. He had gotten used to it; the noise of silence around him.

But something _was_ bothering him, tonight. He could not quite put his finger on it; it was just a feeling of paramount apprehension, a feeling that somethingwas bound to _happen, _soon. Something threatening was looming in the sunset of this day, something disquieting in the tides of the dusk. The creaking noises of the house, the weakest ripple of the curtains, as well as the serene rustling of the oak leaves outside the window –they all suddenly forecasted the end of the Manor's peaceful atmosphere.

And Draco Malfoy did not like it.

If anything, Draco Malfoy detested disturbance. Disturbance always meant that his carefully sealed memories would be stirred, the unattainable secrets within a man's heart invoked. The veils would be torn down, replaced by windows. A painful resurrection of reality would follow, blinding the existing darkness with the light of truth, making him see and hear and _feel_ things he had hoped he would never have to remember again.

The fire crackled in the fireplace. Its glow was not very warm, but it still created an ambience of false cosiness in the cold library. Draco raised his eyes to the ceiling, excessively decorated with golden sprouts of ivy and grapevine. Several opalescent stone angels were reaching down from the impressive heights, tears of desolation gleaming in their gemstone eyes, soft whimpers echoing like silent whispers of wind in the air. Draco shut his eyes and exhaled with fatigue. He wished he knew the charm that would make the angels lifeless again, make them stop worrying about him, worrying about the very shadow that was left of the brilliance of the old days, when the name of a Malfoy was still respected. But the days of grandeur were over, the nights of distinction gone by. The Manor was now asleep.

Draco jerked out of his gloomy thoughts when a chill shiver, cold as a dribbling water from the garden's fountain, slithered down his spinal column. He immediately understood that the wards had become activated, even though they hadn't done that in several years. The only visitors that ever really came to the Manor were Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott, and the wards recognized them already as his friends. Not soon after, a series of heavy, boisterous blows began to intrude in his hearing. They came from the direction of the massive mahogany front doors.

"I knew it!" Draco muttered, and heaved himself up from his luxurious armchair. "I fucking knew it."

For a brief moment, he swayed in the haze of his slight drunkenness, but managed to compose himself rather quickly. He straightened his back and glanced briefly down at his clothes. It could have been worse; he was at least wearing a pair of dark grey trousers, if nothing else. Wiping the fine silvery hair that fell over his eyes, he forced himself to move.

With rapids steps, he walked into the Entrance Hall. He had no house elves to do such a plebeian job as opening the doors, anymore; shortly after the war had ended they all had been freed by a new organization called SPEW. The green marble stone floor was cold underneath his feet, but he chose to ignore it.

The booming got much louder now, and if the doors would have been more delicately made, they surely would have broken down.

"Lord Grindelwald's fucking name, I'm coming!"

Draco silently scolded himself of getting such a violent vocabulary over the past few years, but he was too angry and too drunk to do anything about it right now. Instead, he concentrated on unlocking the doors and pushing them ajar.

Soon, he found himself face to face with a pink-haired, round-cheeked young woman.

"Draco Malfoy?" the woman asked, smiling nervously. 

Draco tilted his head and glared at her. "Yes, obviously."

"I'm... Nymphadora Tonks. Your cousin." The woman would not meet his eyes.

"Tonks... Oh, yes." Draco now truly recognized as his cousin Nymphadora from his aunt Andromeda's side. She had been prowling along the aisles of Hogwarts sometime during his sixth year at school, and they had never talked to each other. "What brings you here? Had trouble sleeping and decided to pay a visit to the long-forgotten black sheep of the family?"

Tonks blushed. It was true; she had never paid much attention to his cousin Draco. Despite the youngest Malfoy had been declared mostly innocent of his war-time actions during the trials, the Tonks family had shunned him and left him, a seventeen-year-old boy, to deal with all the following hardships alone. The war hadn't certainly ended at Voldemort's death; the aftermath had been almost as bad as the actual battles. Especially for a young man supposed to be a Death Eater through and through. Tonks knew not the isolated life Draco had been living in the depths of his grand mansion, keeping a low profile, hoping against hope that the true judgement day would never come.

Tonks cleared her throat quickly. "In the name of the Ministry, we would like to benefit from your kindness in a matter of great emergency."

"I'm sure you would." Draco arched a brow.

"You are aware, of course, of the series of rather brutal assassinations that have taken place lately around Wiltshire and especially New Forest?" A short, blond-haired witch pushed Tonks aside and glared at Draco with sharp, blue eyes. Her hands were playing with her apron that was decorated with green and red and gold. Draco got the strange mental picture of a demented, multi-coloured owl from her, and he did not even _want_ to know why she was wearing an apron in the first place, when the others were wearing robes that were clearly meant for fieldwork.

"No, actually, I wasn't aware of that." Draco eyed her calculatingly. He now vaguely remembered her face from Hogwarts; she had been a year below him, and in the snobbish house of Ravenclaw. Luna Lovegood. Draco decided she couldn't have been an Auror for very long, since the training took at least five to six years, and she couldn't be older than four and twenty. From her over-enthusiastic and, admittedly, rather strange behaviour, Draco easily gathered that this case was one of her first in the field. Just as to what 'this case' was, Draco had the feeling he was about to find out.

Lovegood's eyes were round with surprise as she stared at Draco's face. "How can you _not _know about these murders? They're hardly a secret. The Daily Prophet..."

"I cancelled my subscription of the Prophet already years ago," Draco drawled with a bored tone. "And I don't associate with people much. Least of all with people like you."

"Alright, whatever. Let's get to business." Tonks grumbled. "We have a man down. Hexed with several dangerous curses. We need to get him medical help as soon as possible and our hope relies on you and your possible supplies of healing potions, and your possible skills in healing magic."

Indeed, there was a form of an unconcsious man leaning against a hedge behind the two women, a short distance away. The figure was entirely wrapped in a thick, black cloak, yet his shivers were still clearly visible despite the mass of canvas. Draco glared. "Why did you bring him to me? Why woudln't you just drag his sorry arse to St. Mungo's? I don't want people dying on my doorstep, thank you very much! That wouldn't look good, especially given my current reputation."

Tonks watched him in silence for a moment. "You really don't know much, do you?" she realised. "St. Mungo's was the main target of last month's attack. It doesn't exist anymore."

"Oh." For the first time in his life, Draco felt a little stupid. Maybe he really should start to follow the news again. "Alright. What about Hogwarts, then?"

"Hogwarts, as you very well know... Well, in case you _don't_ _know_," she sneered. "Hogwarts doesn't work as a school and a hospital, anymore. It's the new Headquarters of the Ministry."

"So why didn't you bring him to the Ministry, then?" Draco growled. "I'm sure they would've done anything to..."

"The cats would be marrying dogs before Potter wanted us to bring him anywhere _near_ the Ministry when he's injured," Tonks snorted. "Now, how is it? Will you let us in, or...?"

"P-Potter?" Draco nearly choked, which was not very elegant, but he blamed it all on the atrocious mold that hovered invisibly the nightly air, to which he fancied himself severely allergic.

"Yes. Harry's the one who's injured. Certainly now you must understand our worry. And our hurry."

Draco was just about to tell the whole lot to sod off, when someone stepped right in front of him and grabbed him sharply from the shoulder.

"Excuse me." Neville Longbottom, of all the near squibs on earth, decided it was his time to intrude into the conversation and make the dangerously lenghtening chat short. Draco had absolutely no idea from where he had emerged so suddenly and, frankly, he had even less desire to find it out. "His condition is weakening rapidly. If you w-won't help us, I assure you the Ministry won't look at y-you with a friendly eye any longer. Refusing to help an injured man, especially an Auror, is a s-severe crime, the consequences o-of which may be very, very unpleasant."

Longbottom was shaking like a leaf –surely Draco didn't resemble Severus Snape that much? He should certainly hope so. Gathering his wits, Draco heaved an irritated breath.

There would be a beautiful winter dawn in hell before the Ministry would look at his dealings with a _friendly eye. _Yet, the last thing he now wanted was to get arrested, and thus become unjustly exposed to the world again. It would be a field day for the press. Draco could picture it well in his mind's eye: the headlines of the Daily Prophet declaring the son of Lucius Malfoy indisputably guilty of refusing to help a dying man, demanding justice in the means of execution for the last Malfoy heir. His face would be plastered in the cover of every magazine, old, out-of-date pictures from his school days spreading like fire across the country.

Draco couldn't' have that. Especially when the pictures showed him with indecently short hair and very bad skin. It would be unbearable.

"Alright." Draco pushed the door slightly more open. "Would you like to come in?"

Longbottom released a breath he had been holding. "Good decision, Mr. Malfoy."

"As long as you stay the hell away from my potions lab in the cellar, and away from my mother's antique porcelain collection in the library, I have no instant obligation to hex you, Longbottom."

"Thanks, I will. Tonks, come with me. Let's go and get Potter."

Draco tried to stop his head from spinning, and leaned weakly against the doorframe. "Just kill me now, why don't you?" he muttered.

Lovegood shot him a strange, misty look. "What was that?"

"Oh, nothing!" Draco frowned. "It just came to my mind that the bedrooms are in a dreadful condition. I haven't had very many guests, lately."

"Doesn't matter." Tonks snapped, her cheeks red with the effort of lifting Potter in Longbottom's arms. "We'll take care of that. Just show us in."

Draco bit his lower lip in slight nervousness, as he watched his cherished home being invaded by strangers. Yes, it had been a very long time since this grand house had last harboured guests other than his closest friends. Therefore, it was very strange to hear unfamiliar footsteps echoing against the dark green marble floor, after so many years of quietude and solitude. It was strange to hear gasps of surprise and awe when the three Aurors stepped into the Entrance Hall and raised their gazes towards the high glass ceiling, through which moonlight was seeping down and silently covering the hall with a wavering, milky glow.

"Beautiful!" Lovegood whispered.

"Which way?" grunted Longbottom, who was breathing heavily under Potter's dead weight on his arms.

Draco gestured towards the grand staircase at their left. "There. The bedrooms are located on the third floor. I'll show you."

The strange group ascended the staircases in a gloomy silence. Only Potter's occasional, raspy coughging fits interrupted the quietude. It was very dark everywhere, since Draco had not bothered to light the torches on the walls, nor the candles in the chandeliers, let alone the fireplaces in the numerous unused rooms. After all, he had not expected any outsiders to be walking along these aisles in the immediate future.

"So... You live here all alone?" asked Tonks, eyeing the moving portraits on the walls. One of them presented her grandmother, Mrs. Black, but luckily she was sleeping. From her expression, Draco gathered she was half expecting a tantrum, the main message of which could have been compressed in one single word: 'bloodtraitor'.

"Naturally." Draco eyed the pink-haired woman with slight curiosity. After all, she _was _his family, and he could recognize many Black features from her facial expressions. "You don't really expect that anyone would want to live here with me, do you, Tonks? Not after what happened with the war, and all."

She shrugged, her fingers lightly touching the gloomy tapestry of the wall. "Well... I'd rather think _you_ would want someone to live here with you. This place is upright creepy."

Draco swallowed a bitter response, and leaped up the last steps two at a time. "This way."

They arrived on the third floor. Draco showed them along the aisle that spread on their right-hand side. It was wide and high, and the floor was covered with deep red carpet. Several, heavy crystal crowns were hanging from the ceiling, but they were cloaked in the shadows and spider web because Draco hadn't lighted the candles in years, and because he had never bothered to clean the glassy gems that were now covered with dust.

Draco opened the double doors at the very end of the aisle and gave way to his new guests. "This is currently the only room in the house with any warming spells activated. It's also the only one without dust and debris all over the furniture. There's the bed –may I change the sheets, or...?"

"No, this will do just fine." Tonks helped Longbottom to lay Potter down on the mattress. "Luna, fetch warm water and some towels. Neville, help me take off Harry's clothes. We'll need to see his injuries for what they truly are. Be careful –we don't want to make it worse. Malfoy?"

"Yes?" Draco looked seemingly confused in the middle of all the rapid activity.

"Would you be so kind as to check if there's anything useful in your potions cabinet?"

Draco shrugged, giving up on understanding what was happening. "I would. But I doubt there will be anything. I haven't been exactly eager to keep it up the date."

"Well, check it out, anyway! How do you think we're supposed to keep him alive if we don't even try?"

"It's not any of my concern, is it?" Draco snapped. "I would suggest you run to Willowbend and ask some barkeeper if they would allow you to use their fireplace to contact real Medi-Wizards."

"We need to keep this a secret!" Tonks hissed, taking off Potter's shoes. "We don't want anyone to find out he's in this condition."

"What a stupid way of thinking!" Draco hissed back. "If you want to keep him alive, you _will_ contact professionals. I can't help you. Besides, the ones who did this are already aware of it! And if they think they've managed to finish off the fabled Chosen One, I doubt _they_ will be wanting to keep it a secret. It's all over the press tomorrow."

"I don't fucking care! Maybe it's better people think he's dead! Just go and check the fucking potions cabinet already, will you?"

Tonks' eyes were suddenly filled with tears. Draco felt very awkward; he didn't actually know how to deal with crying people. Then, a strange urge to keep Potter in fact alive ran through his mind as he shifted his gaze to the helpless, black-haired young man shivering on his bed, now half undressed. How ironic it would be, should Potter survive and find out that it had actually been Draco Malfoy who had helped him out of near certain death? Yes... Draco would help his cousin to save the sorry arse of the Chosen One. If nothing else, Draco might as well enjoy the possibility of spending the night doing something else than drinking old wine in the library, like usual.

"Why don't _you _go and see what I have, Tonks? I might as well see his injuries. How am I supposed to know what will help him if I don't take a look at him?" Draco sauntered to the bed and leaned over Potter. "I have some experience in dealing with dark curses, as you might know."

"So you will help us?" Tonks breathed, amazed.

"I will." Draco touched gently one of Potter's gaping wounds. They weren't bleeding, per se, but it looked like as if the blood was boiling in the deep gashes. "Hm. You will need to bring me fresh dittany. As a matter of fact... Bring me my whole potions kit up here. I might need to brew something."

Tonks sighed with relief and dashed out of the room. Lovegood was just arriving from the bathroom carrying a bucket of hot water and a few towels, and she jumped out of Tonks' way with a small yelp.

"You do one wrong movement, Malfoy, and I swear it'll be your last." Longbottom was glowering at Draco from the other side of the bed.

Disbelief showed clearly from Draco's face."_You_ swear? Longbottom, despite the fact that I don't own a wand these days, the Ministry having confiscated it, I still feel rather confident to say that I could fight you any day without it -and without losing."

Draco turned back to Potter and keenly examined his face that was contorted into a painful expression, even in his unconciousness. If he managed to draw some kind of perverse satisfaction from it, he didn't let it show.

Lovegood came over and laid the towels down on the bed. "Do you know what he was hit with?"

"Of course." Malfoy took one of the towels from Lovegood's hand and dipped it into the water. "It was a favourite of my uncle Rodolphus'. _Aequitas Inferi_."

"Is it bad?" Lovegood looked slightly scared.

"Nothing more than what Potter deserved, I'm sure." Draco shook his head. Then he glared at the young witch. "Well do something useful and just not sit there looking stupid, woman! For the love of all money in England, I don't want him to die in my bed!"

Lovegood swirled into action. Under Draco's guidance, she finished undressing Potter's lithe form, wiped away the blood that had spilled from his nose and his mouth. Draco made certain they did not go near the boiling gashes; he had the vaguest recollection of Snape's face telling him never to touch poisoned blood –not even with a towel.

Draco was glad to hear Tonks finally scrambling up the stairs with his potions supplies. It was a near impossible task he had ahead of him, but for some curious reason he'd yet to clarify to himself, he would do his best to keep Potter alive. He closed his eyes and, concentrating hard, tried to remember what his uncle had once told him about the curse and its effects.

* * *

..To Be Continued... 


	2. Daybreak

Disclaimer: J.K.Rowling & Warner Bros & various others own the whole HP world. Not me.

WARNING: This story is Post-HPB! Meaning, there will be HPB spoilers.

A/N: I apologize for poor grammar. I don't have a beta, and my native language sure as hell isn't English. Try to bear with me.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Daybreak  
**

It is rather admirable, really, how the first morning sunlight can make even the most unattended of gardens look beautiful and inviting.

Draco silently pondered this fact, looking down at the Manor's wild, unruly lands through one of the library's windows. The overgrown grass was covered with morning dew and the flowers were sleeping in the mist. His mother Narcissa had once loved the gardens. She had loved to spend time just looking over the lands, just like Draco was doing now, inhaling the fragrance of roses that rose from the gardens on warm summer evenings.

Of course, back then, there had still been roses that were willing to blossom.

Draco looked down, taking in his own state of undress. He was still wearing the grey trousers from the night before and little else –if Harry Potter's blood wasn't counted as 'little else'. Draco realised he sould probably take a shower and get properly dressed. The reddish, dried gore that was plastered all over his chest and arms and hands was rapidly starting to feel uncomfortable.

It had probably been the worst night of his life. Correction –it had _almost_ been the worst night of his life. Because, honestly, there was really nothing that could ever compare to the horrid, dark memories Draco had gathered during the War, spending more time than was healthy for anybody with Lord Voldemort and his sinister crew. But, in all truth, fighting a seemingly futile battle against a curse that was consuming Potter's life had come very near to those excruciating moments of the past.

Especially since Draco had yet to decide why he had bothered in the first place.

Potter had been unconscious the whole time Draco had worked his magic on him. Moment by moment, he had come weaker and weaker when Draco had tried to remember how the curse would have to be broken without causing additional damage, and at some point all of them –Tonks, Lovegood, Longbottom and him- had thought they had lost the precious Chosen One. Yet, some kind of miraculous power had held its grip on Potter –and had made him survive.

During the first morning hours of the new day, Draco had brewed an antidote of dittany, belladonna, mallowsweet and unicorn blood. It had been very difficult to make, mostly because there had been no unicorn blood to be found anywhere. Luckily for all of them, Draco had been clever enough to raid the guest room where Professor Snape had usually spent his nights during his visits to the Manor, and thus he had found the secret stash of potions ingredients Snape had kept in one of the guestroom closets.

It was another question whether Potter would be pleased to find out he now owed his life to Snape, but that was neither here or there.

In any case, Draco had indeed managed to prepare the antidote. Naturally, he had needed concentration while brewing it, which is why Longbottom had been immediately chased away from the room; there had been indisputable reasons against his presence in the room that dated back as far as their schooltime years at Hogwarts. Lovegood had been very displeased, but no-one had cared for her opinion much. Draco had pushed a wet sponge in her hand and told her to make sure Potter would be well provided with water.

Cousin Nymphadora had been Draco's best assistant. She had done whatever she had been told, and without question or hesitation. This particular feature in his cousin had pleased Draco exceedingly; more so when they had suddenly been forced to act as a nimble and smooth team when Potter had started to spasm uncontrollably. Cousin Nymphadora –or Tonks, as she wanted herself to be called- had proved to be an effective, resolute woman, despite her obvious clumsiness in many other things.

At sixteen past two in the morning, Potter had been fed the antidote, and Draco had finally been able to calm him down. Not before Potter had coughed up a tremendous quantity of blood all over him, just for the kicks of it, but still. He had fallen into a reckless slumber, which Draco thought was better than unconsciousness, at any rate. The antidote had begun to recreate his bloodshells and, after a while, the only evidence of the curse actually having once been there was a high fever.

Draco had been satisfied.

Longbottom had crashed into the room to see his friend as soon as he could. He had dragged himself a chair from the parlour and settled firmly next to Potter's bed, ready to bite off everyone's heads, should he be denied this privilege. Draco had let him be; after all, his own job was now done, and he really had no energy left to argue with useless squibs like Longbottom. Lovegood had been ready to collapse with tiredness, despite the obvious fact she hadn't really done much anything except hold a sponge in her hand, and had excused herself to one of the guestrooms. Draco had heard her mumble something about _nargles_ before her voice had luckily been drowned by the thick walls of the house.

Draco yawned, and glared at the early sunrise. He thought it would be quite amusing to write a journal entry about the previous night's happenings and mail it to Potter later on, just to remind him to whom he was now indebted. Friends, it seemed, still continued to be the reason why Potter was still alive. Last night, though, this pathetic group of mindless people had extended to _enemies, _as well, which was slightly disturbing.

Draco didn't think about writing down anything, anymore.

A slight movement in the corner of his eye broke him out of his reverie, and he turned around to find Cousin Nymphadora –or Tonks- waking up. She had fallen asleep on one of the library's couches just a few hours ago, when the anxiety of the previous night had finally overpowered her –and when Draco had finally realised he should cast a sleeping charm on her.

She was sitting by the fire, still exhausted and pale. Yet she somehow managed to look as if she belonged there, as if she were a real descendant of the Blacks, despite half of her blood was tainted with her father's Muggle inheritance. She didn't seem to find it at all awkward to see Draco standing there, under the morning sunlight, looking like the monster of some B-class Muggle horror movie the Weasleys so often liked to watch. Not that Draco really knew what movies were, per se, but the comparison sounded adequately gruesome all the same.

Tonks gave Draco a faint smile. "Morning."

Draco acknowledged her with a nod. "Yes. It is, indeed."

"You didn't sleep at all, did you?" There was a half-amused and half-worried expression on Tonks' face.

"Having you, Potter and two other Aurors underneath my roof?" Draco tried to grin, but it probably came out as a grimace. "Certainly not."

Tonks bit her lip, and then stood up. She walked towards him, and upon reaching him, she took his hands in her own. Draco flinched at the unexpected touch, but she would not let him go. "Thanks for letting us stay. Thanks for helping us."

Draco looked away; he had never received any gratitude in his entire twenty and five years of life, and he certainly didn't know how to deal with it now. "Don't mention it."

Squeezing Draco's hands one more time, she pulled away, settling herself by the window next to him. "Beautiful lands."

"Yes. They once were."

"They are still."

They stood there, side by side, staring out of the window for several minutes in silence. Draco's eyes were trained upon a pair of sparrows bathing in the large fountain below. It would be only a matter of time before the grindylow that lived in the said fountain would surprise them and eat them. After all, a grindylow that did not live in the lake had a very limited menu –especially when Draco repeatedly chose to forget to feed it. Draco smiled wryly, and then asked a question that had been bothering him ever since he had left Potter sleeping in his own bed.

"Why did you bring him here?"

Tonks began to play with a pink curl of her hair that was running down her cheek. "I... I already told you last night. St. Mungo's is in ruins and Hogwarts..."

"I wish you wouldn't pretend to be stupid with me."

She fell speechless for a moment, obviously in order to consider her words anew. "Well..." she hesitated. "There wasn't anywhere else we could've gone, really."

"Little Willowbend is just beyond the Manor's southern boundaries," Draco remarked. "A good wizarding village, lots of friendly and capable people living in there. A well-trained Healer among them, too, if I'm not completely mistaken."

"Yes, I know that." She seemed to overcome some kind of invisible obstacle, and finally turned to face Draco. "Harry wasn't unconscious when we found him, you know."

"And?"

"And... It was his idea to come here. I was against it, myself, but an order is an order."

"Potter must have lost his mind at some point during the past few years." Draco shrugged. "Not that he had much brain in the first place, as I recall."

"I don't know about his reasons. But he said you would what to do." Tonks insisted. "And you did."

Draco glared again at the two sparrows that were still playing outside. He was displeased to find them continuously alive. Perhaps the grindylow had died off on him? "Potter can make some very brave decisions, sometimes," he concluded.

Tonks smiled, a tender smile that lightened up her whole countenance. "Yes. He is very brave."

"Am I to hear the story behind his unfortunate run-in with a bunch of dark wizards yesterday, or am I to just accept his being underneath my roof for the next few weeks without any explanation?"

Tonks' eyes went wide. "You think it'll take so long for him to recover?"

"Three weeks, in the very least. We should be very happy if the fever drops in a fortnight." Draco looked smug. "I'm afraid it took me four weeks and three days to recover, myself."

"You have been hit with the same curse?" There was astonishment in his cousin's voice.

"Well, yes. But that's not the point, here."

Tonks gave him a long-suffering look, and then shook her head. "Whatever. But Harry will be wanting to go home sooner than that."

"He may want what he likes." Draco pulled away from the window, and walked to one of the doors that led out of the lofty room. "I'm taking a shower."

...To Be Continued...


	3. Cicatrices

**A/N: **This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful new beta** Leiselmae.** -hug- You did a wonderful job, honey. I can't ever imagine what would have become of me without you. I mean this, truly.**  
**

Disclaimer: The characters and places aren't (still) mine. You know the real mage behind them: J.K. Rowling.

**WARNING: **still spoilers from the Half-Blood Prince…

* * *

**Chapter 3: Cicatrices**

Draco frowned as he let the stream of warm water cascade down his shoulders. Dark red streams of diluted blood were coiling around his feet for a short moment before disappearing down the drain. Entire flecks of Potter's disgusting, dried hemoglobin were coming off his skin, which made him feel increasingly annoyed. He leaned one hand against the shower's black-and-green–tiled wall and turned his face up to meet the soothing shower.

He had seen many things in his life, despite his young age of twenty-five. Blood, in all its forms, was one of those things he'd gotten used to, during those dark years that marked his last few years of the past century. Involuntarily, and out of an old habit, Draco's free hand roamed across his chest, feeling the outlines of the scars that had marked his fair skin ever since he was sixteen. _Sectumsempra._ All Draco could remember about the spell was its name –and the excruciating pain it had caused. Nay, that was not entirely true: Draco could also remember the spell's _caster, _and the excruciating pain _he _had caused. Draco had never thought Potter knew such dark magic, but then again he had been wrong about the four-eyed geek many times before.

_Sectumsempra._ Draco remembered how the blood had just simply burst out of his system. It hadn't been a very comfortable feeling, and certainly not enviable; it had hurt like hell. But there was something about the whole ordeal that still made Draco remember it with a strange kind of fondness: Potter had namely been so terrified of what he had done to Draco that he had actually slumped down on the wet lavatory floor, a panic-stricken look in his bright green eyes. It had seemed, for a short moment, as if Potter was truly sorry for what he had done. As if Potter would have wanted to take it all back. His hands had been reaching out for Draco, wanting to touch but not daring; his erratic stammering of incomprehensible words had been directed to him, although even a child could have understood there was no way Draco could have answered –or even understood. What with his eyes and nose and mouth and _everything _covered in his own blood.

Draco shook his head at the memory, and found himself smiling. There were eight of them all together: eight thin scars that looked like whip slashes across his chest. Although, truthfully, two of them were a little bit lower, riding down from his loins towards his crotch. He could only ever be grateful enough to Snape that there were no visible marks of scarring on his face. That is, if one didn't look very carefully below the right-hand curve of his jawbone, where a thin, silvery-white trail could be distinguished. The spell had nearly split his carotid, there.

Reaching for the towel, Draco slid out of the shower. Reluctantly, he wrapped the soft terry cloth around his waist and prepared to go and get some clean clothes from his wardrobe. Wardrobe, that happened to be in his bedroom. Bedroom, that was currently working as a temporary hospital for the precious Chosen One. Snarling to himself, Draco made his way across the spacious bathroom, quickly glancing at his own reflection from the mirror on the wall as he went. He still had a smudge of red gore below his left eye, and he wiped it away impatiently.

He found Longbottom just as he had left him: snoring loudly next to the bed, sprawled ungraciously all across the chair. If a flock of enraged Blast-Ended Skrewts would have entered the bedroom, Draco knew Lonbottom would have hardly reacted. How the idiotic half-squib had become an Auror was entirely beyond Draco's comprehension. Maybe Potter had bribed someone to let him in? Draco moved smoothly across the room and passed by the grand four-poster bed.

A lithe figure of a young man was lying underneath his expensive sheets. Under any other circumstances Draco might have found the situation enticing. Now, however, it was anything but. The young man was the infuriating Harry Potter, and the sheets were as dirty with blood as Draco himself had been only moments ago. Tentatively, drawn by some curious and unrecognizable force, Draco inched closer to the bed.

Potter's black, messy hair had spread like a spiky halo around his head on the pillow. It was unmistakably longer than what it had been in their youth. Potter's pale skin, now slightly flushed with the fever, showed clearly that Mr. Hero of the Wizarding World had not spent his summer lying on the beach drinking daiquiris. If Potter had had a summer vacation at all, Draco did not know, but it certainly didn't seem very likely. The bluish-lilac half-circles beneath his eyes, as well as the worried frown that never seemed to leave his face, even in sleep, told another story completely. Draco decided Potter had a rather otherworldly look about him without his horrible, round glasses. Where said glasses were, Draco had not the remotest idea –but he was still rather satisfied they were missing.

Draco shook his head and sauntered off to his wardrobe. He found a pair of soft, black trousers and a fitted shirt and, making sure Longbottom was still snoring, dropped his towel unceremoniously onto the floor. Leisurely, he began to dress himself, marveling at the softness of the wall-to-wall Oriental carpet under his bare feet. He had been living in this house his entire life, yet such a small, nice detail had never come to his attention before. His instincts must have become heightened ever since the arrival of the Aurors. However, Draco instantly decided that Oriental carpets were the best invention ever –after all, they were even capable of flying, should the need arise.

Draco had just begun to button up his trousers, when a soft voice from the direction of the bed startled him out of his wits.

"What time is it?"

Draco swirled around, his damp hair sticking into his eyes with the movement. Potter was looking at him from the depths of his bed, green eyes serene and intense.

"Uhm." Draco replied lamely, and clutched the shirt close to his body. "Almost nine in the morning. I... I didn't know you were awake."

"And I didn't know you wore Muggle clothing," Potter blinked.

"Don't be stupid, Potter," Draco couldn't help the rosy colour creeping over his cheekbones. Potter had most evidently been watching him while he was getting dressed. "As if I would wear anything even remotely Muggle."

Potter tried to smile, but it seemed to cause him too much effort –and even more pain- and he settled on looking pointedly at his unfinished trouser buttons. "I can see that. Clearly."

Draco hastily buttoned the trousers up. Whether he wore underwear or not wasn't any of Harry Potter's business. "Shouldn't you be sleeping and not making idiotic comments?" he asked, trying to sound irritated despite the fact that his heart was racing.

"I'm thirsty. Besides..." Potter coughed, which made Draco grimace. "Besides this bed reeks something terrible. I want clean sheets."

"Demanding much?" Draco turned around and slipped his shirt on. It felt nice against his skin, snug and warm, and it most effectively covered his scars. After making sure he looked decent, Draco turned around to face Potter again. "Let's make one thing clear, all right? When I took you in, I didn't promise you first-class hotel service. I'm not at your beck and call. This is my home, and since I'm not asking you to pay rent for the room, I'm not extending you the right to make any demands."

Potter's glare matched Draco's own quite admirably. "But I feel like shit. Cold and hot and frustrated... You can't just leave me here to suffer."

"Actually, I can." Draco smirked. "I already patched your wounds and saved your sodding life –in spite of the fact that we're not exactly on cordial terms with each other. What else can you possibly want from me?"

Potter went silent and lowered his eyes. He looked suddenly miserable, even desperate, in the middle of the blood-stained bed-clothes, and he coughed again. Draco felt a stab of something unnerving in his chest, and groaned inwardly. "All right, fine! I'll alert Lovegood to aid you with the sheets. Longbottom can bring you water, if only you can wake him up."

"Of course I can. I'm the one who..." Potter cleared his throat, as if there were something making him suffocate. Which, Draco reflected, probably _was_ the case. "I'm the one who stupefied him."

Draco looked at the black-haired wizard pointedly and raised another of his steel-grey brows.

"What?" Potter frowned. "He was getting on my nerves."

Draco felt a major head-ache coming, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the room. "Can't blame you on that. However... As I said, Potter, you shouldn't be awake yet. Your fever is still high and you need rest to recover."

"Mmmh. I didn't know that you cared."

"You wish, Potter. The sooner you recover, the sooner I can throw you out of my house."

Quickly, Draco put on his socks and shoes and started to stalk away. He hadn't accounted for the fact Potter might be awake so soon after what he had endured last night. Namely, the similar 'accident' several years ago had left Draco unconscious for almost three entire days. And Draco was certainly not yet ready to deal with Potter. One way or another.

"Malfoy?" The voice was timid and a little bit hoarse, and very much pleading.

"Yes?" Draco spat from between his teeth. He felt exasperated, but still slowed down his steps –although he really didn't want to.

"Thank you. For doing this, I mean..." Potter hesitated. "You really didn't have to help me, you know. You could've just... turned your back on me."

Draco closed his eyes and sighed but did not turn to face Potter anymore. His fingers were already twined around the door handle. "As if anyone could turn his back on you Potter. However, if it makes you feel better, I promise I'll make you pay me back some day. Good day."

Upon closing the bedroom door behind his back, he could hear Potter mutter a silent _Ennervate._

---

The Manor's breakfast room was a beautiful, lofty space with wide windows that promised a good view over the Manor's front yard. The small village of Willowbend could be seen in the distance, several pillars of smoke rising up through the air from the rocky chimneys. Heavy, white velvet curtains that were sewn with silver and green hung protectively at the sides of the two glass doors. These doors led out to an enormous balcony that circled around the entire mansion like a great, overly decorated eaves.

Draco was currently leaning against the railing of said balcony, sipping quietly at his morning tea. It was nine thirty in the morning, and he was already wondering how long he would have to put up with his new and exceptionally annoying guests. They had been in his house for eleven hours already, and that was longer than anyone had been there in the past nine years; the house had been practically abandoned ever since the happenings of the summer 1996.

Draco remembered that particular summer well. Aunt Bellatrix and Uncle Rodolphus had been visiting them very frequently at the time. Aunt Bellatrix had been teaching him Occlumency, and Uncle Rodolphus had been just drinking night and day, gloating about his past deeds for the Dark Lord. Draco remembered wishing his father were there to shut the man's mouth, but of course he wasn't. Because of Potter.

Draco felt a heavy feeling strangling his heart when his thoughts turned to Potter. He didn't exactly want to know what it meant.

Draco squeezed the handle of his tea cup and tried to concentrate on the present moment. He realised that he was rather uncomfortable with having so many strange people residing in his house, when all he wanted now was to be alone. One couldn't just tell them to sod off, right? Luckily none of them were Mudbloods; otherwise his parents –rest their wicked souls- would have experienced simultaneous posthumous seizures in their lovely family crypt. Longbottom and Lovegood managed to be even _purebloods_, heaven forbid.

Draco frowned at his tea. Maybe he could tell _Longbottom_ and _Lovegood _to sod off? Potter would do just as well without them. Tonks was at least tolerable, because she was family, and Draco firmly believed they could manage to take care of Potter just between the two of them, without any squibs or lunatics disturbing their work.

Not that Draco had any intention of helping Potter, which naturally fought against the idea of sending the rest of the crew away.

Draco sipped at his tea again. Why in the sodding hell couldn't the hospitals be in function? Not even Hogwarts...

Summer 1996 returned back to Draco's mind with full force. It was the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts –the summer of big changes. Draco was rather surprised that his guests had not yet made any remarks about the Dark Mark on his left forearm. He hadn't tried to hide it. He was not ashamed of it. Granted, it wasn't the loveliest of tattoos, but the meaning behind it was much more important than its outer appearance. Draco had been actually happy to receive it, and at such young age, too. From that day on, he had become a man with real responsibilities. The whining boy who used to bully first-years at school had become someone much more important; not even Potter had managed to hold his attention for very long, anymore.

However, a great responsibility was always bound to bring forth great sacrifices as well. There were times, _several_ times during that summer, when Draco would have liked nothing better than to have a comforting chat with his father. He would've liked to have his father's advice. He wasn't allowed to have it, though: one did not visit the prisoners of Azkaban. Lucius had been locked up behind bars for three weeks and two nights together, when Draco had first come to realise that he actually missed the constant counseling of his cold-hearted sire. Draco's life had always had a clear, strong direction when Lucius had been there to guide him. That direction had quickly become a blurry path in the valley of darkness, when his father had so suddenly been taken away.

Early in July 1996, not very long after the fateful battle in the Ministry of Magic, the Dark Lord contacted Draco and his mother, Narcissa, and told them about his cruel, nouveaux plans. He had been furious with Lucius, and had not spared the rest of the Malfoys from his wrath. Aunt Bellatrix and her husband had then arrived at the Manor, apparently on Narcissa's request, to aid Draco through his first days as a Death Eater. Aunt Bellatrix had made it her personal duty to teach him Occlumency. She had made him defend his mind every day from July to August, until he had been ready to collapse with the weight his own worst memories flashing day and night in his eyes.

Aunt Bellatrix had proved to be a very cruel teacher. There was one day, somewhere around mid-July, when she had been particularly vehement in her training. Draco had soon learned why. Lord Voldemort had not wanted Draco's Death Eater initiation to become a widely acknowledged fact, and therefore only selected few were told about it. Aunt Bellatrix, always being half maniacal about everything the Dark Lord said or did, had taken it as a personal insult that Professor _Snape_ had been one of the trustees. Aunt Bellatrix hated Snape, and therefore this unfortunate news reflected instantly on Draco's teaching.

Draco had re-lived the near drowning exprerience from his childhood again and again for three weeks afterwards, which had frequently made him look pale and tortured.

Secretly, Draco had started to believe that Aunt Bellatrix actually _fancied_ Snape instead of hated him, because no other person, save for the Dark Lord, had ever managed to discompose her so utterly and completely.

When the end of July neared, Draco had been exhausted, in every sense of the word. He had spent many sleepless nights thinking over his rather difficult situation. He was supposed to get rid of Albus Dumbledore, preferably already before Christmas. His mother, Narcissa, had also been very worried. She had been constantly blabbering something about revenge and Lucius's failure. This, of course, had most effectively shattered every last piece of Draco's nerve-ends. Mother had been screaming that, should he fail, the Dark Lord would mercilessly kill them. Kill her, kill Lucius. Kill Draco. Kill them all.

Draco had not believed her. Then.

When July turned to August, Draco had slowly started to believe. He had experienced three Cruciatus curses, and his mind had been raped with more horrific scenarios of his own death than he'd ever thought possible.

A small bird flew down from the sky and sat on the edge of Draco's tea cup. Blinking, Draco woke up from his trance-like state. The bird escaped, and Draco followed it soaring through the grey sky. The morning forecasted a chilly, rainy day. The Manor's walls seemed to be oozing cold wrath, and the air felt freezing. Draco smiled at himself and dropped the tea cup over the balcony's railing, watching it shatter over the tiles below. Then he glanced at his left forearm that was now covered with the smooth material of his shirt. The Dark Mark was still there, and not even best quality canvas could hide its ugly grimace from Draco's mental eye.

Still smiling, Draco returned into the house.

---

The hours of that day went by faster than Draco would have ever expected. After opening a bottle of wine straight after his morning tea, for obvious reasons that had everything to do with Potter and Lord Voldemort, Draco had decided he should go for a walk outside. He needed some well-earned fresh air. He didn't particularly worry that his guests would wreck the house in his absence, but he decided to stay near the house, just in case. One never knew what Longbottom would be up to. Besides, cousin Nymphadora wasn't known of her extraordinary talents in gracefulness, either. Draco had cast the firmest locking charms he could muster –wandlessly- over the library and potions lab doors, and had ventured outside.

It had begun to rain just a few minutes after Draco had stepped under the dark and heavy, low-hanging sky. The clouds that had been far in the horizon in the morning now seemed to have gathered closer together and formed a black and grey mass that was in constant swirling motion. Flashes of bright lightning bolts could be seen every now and then crossing the sky. How very fitting, Draco thought, while wiping away the rain from his eyes. Maybe the entire sky was mourning after its greatest lightning bolt: the one that was currently sleeping in a bed that belonged to a Malfoy.

"Terrible weather."

Draco recognized the voice as his cousin's. Obviously the woman had followed him outside. Draco grinned, despite himself. "I find it charming."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Tonks caught up with him.

Draco hummed, satisfied, but did not say anything.

"Neville's with Harry now." Tonks stuffed her hands in her pockets and shivered slightly with the dismal weather. "He's trying to do something about the sheets."

"Indeed?" Draco bit his lip as to not laugh out loud. Potter had indeed learned how to order people around. Too bad his extraordinary power was rather limited when the current master of the house was in question. Draco would die before jumping up at Potter's word. "And where is Lovegood?"

"Oh. I sent her to Willowbend."

Draco looked slightly displeased. "I thought you didn't want their interference?"

"I don't. I sent her to buy us some food."

Draco nodded in approval. After all, _someone_ in the house had to make sure the Aurors wouldn't starve, and Hell would be a party house for drunken angels before Draco Malfoy went grocery shopping himself. It was just so _common. _In fact, Draco wouldn't have minded if the Aurors _would_ have starved, but it wouldn't have looked mighty good in his curriculum vitae. Especially considering what already lay there.

"There's one thing I don't understand, though." Tonks sounded confused. "I've just come from the kitchen, and I must tell you I've never seen emptier cupboards. Not even a slice of bread! How you live is beyond me. From thin air?"

"Surely you didn't think I would spend my valuable time cooking?" Draco sneered in disgust. "I don't happen to store up food. I happen to receive my meals straight from Willowbend four times a day, using the same method they use at Hogwarts: enchanted tables. The house-elves of the Red Dragon Inn have the matching pair of the table I have in my breakfast room."

"Enchanted tables?" Tonks stared. "So the food just... appears in front of you, every day?"

"Well, yes." Draco drawled. "And it disappears the same way, after I'm finished. It's rather convenient, really. No dishes."

Tonks was amazed. "Must be expensive."

"You'd be surprised."

Tonks didn't know whether Draco meant the food indeed _was_ expensive, or whether it was surprisingly _cheap_. She didn't inquire. "Then I guess I sent Luna out there for nothing," she sighed. "I didn't know of your fancy arrangements."

"I suppose it's alright. I haven't yet informed the Inn of my extra guests. They wouldn't have sent us enough food, anyway."

Tonks nodded, and hugged herself. The wind was blowing the raindrops sharply against her body. "Okay."

Draco halted his steps next to the fountain where the grindylow was supposed to live. "I do hope you had enough sense to not send Lovegood out there without any... _camouflage_. She can't just go to town, buy a handsome load of food and walk up the hill back to the Manor, you know."

"Why not?" Tonks simpered, already knowing very well what Draco meant.

_"Why not?_" Draco was aghast. "Because people would start to talk, that's why! I really don't want them to think that I might be somehow _involved..." _Draco shuddered. "...with Lovegood."

Tonks laughed. "Don't fret. She took Harry's Invisibility Cloak."

Draco refused to snarl. He didn't like the idea of someone prancing around the Manor invisible. The idea was outright repulsive, and he made a mental note to speak to Potter about it. The scar-faced git would have to keep the Cloak firmly out of usage while residing under his roof –or better yet, hand it over to Draco. Internally boiling, he raised his eyes to examine a marble statue that hovered over the fountain. It was the figure of his mother's cousin –the one who had been killed by Lord Voldemort shortly after Draco was born. Tonks came over and wiped a layer of dirt off the statue's nameplate. The name _Regulus Black 1961-1980_ became clearly visible in engraved alphabets.

"Regulus was a handsome man," Tonks observed.

"Aye. And as stupid as me. _Almost._"

"What do you mean?"

Draco felt Regulus Black was sort of a kindred spirit to him; after all, Draco had almost lost his own life the same way, seven years ago. By Lord Voldemort's hand. "Well," Draco said. "Regulus had enough sense to get himself killed somewhere in the middle of the Death Eater process. I didn't. He became a martyr and a hero, sort of. I became... _non-existent_."

"You're not non-existent, Draco. At least not... to all of us."

Draco didn't reply. He was suddenly feeling morose, and turned his eyes away from the statue. Instead, he peered into the fountain in order to see if the grindylow was indeed dead. At least the sparrows were now absent.

"You wanted to know what happened last night." Tonks said this matter-of-factly, still keenly examining the marble face of Regulus Black.

Draco was surprised. He had thought Tonks had forgotten the question he had made earlier in the morning –or just promptly decided that Draco didn't deserve an answer. Now, however, she was offering an explanation with bright, if somewhat narrowed eyes. "I wouldn't mind hearing it."

"I know." Tonks absently played with her bracelet. "I just had a word with Harry and he said that I should let you in on things. Even if I don't know if it's such a good idea, myself."

"I must agree with him, for once." Draco sat down on the wet fountain edge and leaned back to touch the water with his index finger. "I think I really should know what is going on."

"Have you ever heard of the Knights of Walpurgis?" Tonks asked.

"Of course I have. Grandfather Lestrange and that mangy old goof Avery were the earliest members of the group. Used to go to Hogwarts with the Dark Lord, I understand. I've heard their stories more times than what I care to remember. Of course, grandfather Lestrange has been half an invalid ever since the 1960's. All he has is his stories, which may well be over-exaggerated bullshit."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Tonks turned to face him, a strange look in her eyes.

**...To Be Continued...**


End file.
